It’s Just a Game of Whack-a-Mole

It’s all just a game of whack-a-mole. You know the amusement-park one—moles pop up from random holes, startle the daylight out of you, and you slam them with a mallet like your life depends on it. Then you wait with bated, heavy breath for the next one. Sometimes the pauses feel like a lifetime; other times it’s pop-pop-pop and whack-whack-whack until never mind bated breath—you can’t breathe at all! Yeah. THAT game.

This is life right now as a caregiver. In the span of two weeks, our moles have been either popping up or stealth-waiting for the exact worst moments. First, my mother-in-law fell— not a regular fall, but the nightmare kind—right on top of her twin sister, taking them both out. By grace, luck, and whatever benevolent sprites might be on duty, no one was hurt. But it ushered in a new era: Beverly must use a walker. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law can’t remember to use it, because…Alzheimer’s. So, we practice, remind, cajole, repeat. And my father-in-law, who can’t stand change (it makes him physically twitch) had to watch in horror as we’ve removed every single area rug and added railings to staircases that needed them.

Then, in a day of dueling doctor’s appointments, my husband drove his dad to get a hip injection while I took his mom in for a sudden cold and cough. You don’t gamble with the threat of pneumonia or brittle hips. Not in this house, not with people at these ages.

This next round of the game has become blurry – I don’t exactly remember when the real spirit-breaking mole popped up, but the timing was awful.  Our 30-year-old refrigerator we’ve been meaning to replace finally died—dramatically, overnight. Off to Home Depot with a measuring tape and a prayer (because fridges are way bigger than they were 30 years ago). Thankfully, we found one that fit the space, then learned it would take five days to arrive. We started living out of a cooler. I will spare you the detailed debate with his parents about why we couldn’t just keeping using the broken fridge — try to explain to a Depression-era mentality that 52 degrees is **not** food-safe. The beliefs of “don’t waste it; strange smells are ok; it’s fine if you haven’t opened it” is a full-on religion. When the new fridge finally hummed to life, I nearly cried with relief.

We survived Beverly’s fall, the doctors appointments and the death of an appliance. And I’m fully aware there will be more moles. I also have come to know this is just life and once again, I find myself going back to the oracle of horses – this time what they have taught me about crisis and continuity. The thrown shoe the day before the big, important competition for which I’d spent three months in serious training. The emergency colic in a torrential downpour and hauling my horse in a trailer to the equine hospital when I couldn’t see through the windshield. The blue-sky, sunshine filled trail ride that was absolute perfection…. right up until it wasn’t—me on the ground, my 1,000 thousand pound horse on top of me—thanks to the handiwork of another varmint, the ground squirrel and its personal sinkhole.

My reminder to myself as I dig deep to draw on personal experience …. horse girls are tough—really, REALLY tough—because we’ve learned, over and over, that: 

a) life isn’t fair

b) bad things happen at the worst times

c) deal with it

It’s not exactly consoling, but it is clarifying. This is my job right now: get out the mallet; be ready; keep breathing—and whack away.